Euphemisms.

Jenn was waiting for us in arrivals at Burbank Airport, holding a helpful sign that said “A**HOLES.” (“I wanted to be clear who I was picking up, but I didn’t want to offend.”) Caitlin had checked the weather forecast before we left and we were prepared for near triple digits, but the brief walk from the terminal to short term parking was still enough to leave the Bay Area contingent of the Truth Team (which is what Jenn had taken to calling us) dripping in sweat. Jenn was merciful enough have used the pre-cool function on her Tesla to have the car ice cold by the time we all piled in, with Caitlin riding shotgun.

Jenn peeled out north on Hollywood Way, heading towards Glenoaks. “Okay, bitches. That includes you, Alex.” (“Oh goody, always wanted to be one,” he replied, sounding genuinely pleased.) “It’s 2 p.m. Here’s the plan. Addy said Jen will be at home for dinner at 7. Mel and Alex, I’ll drop you off now and we’ll be back to pick you up at 7:45 to begin surveillance. Mel, your mom knows I’m taking the two of you out tonight and dinner will be ready for you at 6. I hope you followed my instructions and brought black clothing.”

Alex snorted; I jabbed him in the ribs. “Yes, of course we did.” Al is still too new to my circle to know that it’s best to humor Jenn when she’s in full on General Patton mode. 

“Good. I’ve worked out the details, all you three need to do is be vigilant once the target is in our sights.” In the rear view mirror, I caught a glimpse of her smiling to herself. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

Alex poked his head into the front of the car. “So we’re the A-Team now? Who am I?”

Jenn reached over and patted his head, never taking her eyes from the road. “You’re Faceman, obviously. I’m the leader, so I’m Hannibal. Cait’s pretty tough, so she’s definitely B.A. Baracus, except she likes a stiff drink more than milk.”

Slowly it dawned on me — my recollection of watching re-runs of The A-Team is a little rusty. “I’m Murdock because I’m… insane?”

“Definitely,” Caitlin and Alex said in unison before dissolving in fits of laughter. I punched Al’s shoulder and didn’t say another word until Jenn rolled up at my parents’ house 15 minutes later.

Alex unloaded our overnight bags from the trunk as I steeled myself for what was likely to be a truly uncomfortable five hours at home. Which Dad would I get? The Sanders-supporting, mellow surfer dude or ranting Julian mimic? We were only a few feet from the same red front door I’d been unlocking for decades when it flew open, startling Alex enough that he dropped my bag.

Dad.

“Afternoon, you two. Come in, come in, it’s broiling out there. Got that bag of Mel’s, Al? I know she can overpack but it can’t be that heavy.” My father looked to be nursing a White Russian well before cocktail hour, another part of his evolution, I guessed. Gone were the usual paint-spattered jeans and faded polo of his Saturday uniform, in favor of a short-sleeved Madras buttondown and chino shorts. He looked like he was on work release from the Oakmont Country Club.

We passed into the foyer, where Alex set down our bags and looked about, biting his lip, his hands jammed in his jeans pockets. “Is Dr. de Mornay here, too, Mr. de Mornay?”

My dad ignored him and turned his attention to me. “Come here, baby. I’ve missed you too much.”

In my father’s embrace, my ambivalence dissipated. This was still my dad, my mentor, my family ally. He smelled of cut grass, as he usually did on a Saturday afternoon. Nothing to fear here. I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

I interceded on Alex’s behalf. “Daddy, is Mom here?”

My dad sipped his drink and waved a hand around dismissively. “I have no idea what your mother is up to half the time. I saw her an hour ago in the laundry room. You might find her in there. She’s insisting on putting you both in Rachel’s room despite what I told her about how inappropriate –“

My mom emerged from the kitchen, her arms full of freshly laundered sheets. “My babies! Ignore your father.” Alex rushed forward to relieve her of her burden; a slight tug of war ensued which Alex eventually won. (“Good job, Al,” my dad whispered — slightly chauvinist but still a mark of favor he could cherish.)

Mom shepherded us past my dad up to Rachel’s room, no longer a shrine but still aggressively lilac. “Now that your father has turned your bedroom into his Redneck Rec Room, this is the only bedroom left for guests. Your father would have preferred Alex stay in the den on the couch, but I told him I would rather give you both our bed and he could sleep on the couch.”

Gone were Rachel’s mood boards from 1999 featuring Christina Aguilera and Gwen Stefani, the tiara from her stint as a member of the Prom Queen’s court in 2001, and the purple feather boa draped over the mirror on the small white vanity set. The framed photos of her high school “Glam Squad” had been banished from the walls, in favor of tasteful posters from a Rothko exhibition at the Guggenheim and a Hockney show at Tate Britain. The four poster bed remained, including the lavender mosquito net suspended from the ceiling, draped and looped over the posts.

Alex nudged me with an elbow. “I take it Rachel likes green. Shall I make the bed, Dr. de Mornay?”

“Alex, please stop with the honorifics. And yes.” Mom pulled the blue bandanna off her head and collapsed in Rachel’s overstuffed aubergine velvet chair. “It’s already been quite a day here, I’m afraid. Your father –” (I noticed she wasn’t calling him “Phil” like she normally did) “– is moving out of the pupal phase of his metamorphosis into a full-blown butterfly of bullshit.” The green scrunchie holding her red hair in a ponytail was starting to slide out, and she grabbed at it angrily before winding it around her hair again.

As I perched on the arm of the chair, I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t help but think it’s my fault encouraging him to be friends with Julian at the beginning.”

“Baby, your father is 64 years old. This is not your responsibility. He is old enough to know what he is doing, and somehow teetering on the edge of supporting Trump is what he wants to do right now. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still voting for Sanders, he says, but how long will that last?” She pulled her knees up under her chin, just as I do in a chair. I resemble her so much physically — I only wish I had her forthrightness and steeliness. I’m more like Dad in terms of character — pliable, susceptible to charm and dissembling, submissive, eager to please. No wonder Julian found another target in my father. “Let’s not talk about him. I have to live with him. Tell me about house hunting. Give me a date for the wedding so I can start planning. And please will you let me know why Jenn gave me strict rules on when dinner must be served tonight. She practically dictated the menu — nothing that could induce belching in Alex, apparently.”

Alex, tucking in a corner of the flat sheet, groaned. “One time. One time and I’m forever the Boy Who Belched.”

“Better than ‘Gas-X,'” my mom countered.

***

Mom left us alone after I’d sworn her to secrecy about Jenn’s plans. “I swear,” she said when I’d finished, “lawyers are the biggest lunatics I know, and I’m a doctor.”

She’d departed by yelling in a voice loud enough for my father to hear in his new study down the hall, “I’m closing the door now so you two can have sexual intercourse outside of wedlock. Dinner’s at six, take a shower before.”

Alex chuckled but I didn’t see much humor in it. “Oh come on, sweetest,” he said, chucking me under the chin. “Your pa is probably just doing this to wind your mum up. They’ve been together so long, and he’s just trying to keep things fresh. Or maybe it’s role play.” He waggled his eyebrows up and down.

I threw one of the accent pillows from the bed at his head. “Gross, Al. My parents have never had sex. Rachel and I were both products of immaculate conception.”

“At least you didn’t have Rachel telling you she had to give your mother a talk about safe sex.” We both gagged and started laughing. Alex picked me up like a sack of flour and threw me on the bed. “Let’s do what your mother told us to do. Get your kit off, girl.”

“I am NOT having sex at 3:30 pm on a Saturday in my sister’s bed with Dad down the hallway watching Fox News.” I could imagine few greater indignities than having my dad open the door to lecture me about something Laura Ingraham just said about the shamefulness of today’s young women only to find me mid-coitus with my legs wrapped around Alex’s waist. “How about a chaste cuddle?” I grinned up at him.

Alex tapped his chin. “A cuddle will suffice. I get to be big spoon, though, so I can grab your tits. Over the shirt only, of course.”

“Of course.”

A soft rap on the door, followed by my dad’s voice: “Melissa, it’s Dad.”

I rolled my eyes. “Let him in, Al.” A little louder, for my father’s benefit: “Nothing unseemly is happening in here.”

Alex opened the door on my dad, who was looking a little sheepish, or a little more sheepish than usual at least. “I’d like to borrow Alex for a few minutes. I could use his help in the garage, couple of things that need to be put up in the rafters.”

“Of course, Mr. de Mornay. Melissa was just lying down for a nap while I did some work. I’m sure she won’t miss me too much.” Al winked at me.

It was a pleasant little lie, one my father seemed to swallow in one gulp. “Good, good. I’ll bring him back in one piece.”

Al followed my dad and I was left alone with little to do. I propped the accent pillow behind me and tried reading an article on Trump lashing out at Washington Post reporters on Twitter but felt too antsy to concentrate. For all his awkward and diffident affect, my father’s quirks can be just that at times: an affect which he can turn up or down to lull others into complacency around him. It’s useful in the courtroom, when he plays up the “I’m just a simple country lawyer” routine before unleashing a pointed and unsparing cross-examination. (He’s also not a country lawyer, unless you think Culver City is the country.)

My brain was pinging with topics for prosecution: Alex’s bank balance and work prospects; why Minty took their child away and would not allow visitation before being ordered to do so by the court; why he waited so long to propose, sorry, almost propose marriage to me; his visa status and thoughts on immigration; the necessity of a prenup; his intentions towards my money; Trump; Julian.

What a list. I rolled onto my stomach and stared out the window into Ray Branigan’s yard across the street, and thought about the summer when my dad led a personal campaign to get our then-new neighbors to remove what he referred to as a “lawn jockey” from their yard. It was a little grinning man in a red jacket and white trousers, holding up a brass ring. I loved it and fantasized that we lived not in the Valley in the mid-’90’s, but in a time when people rode horses for transport and needed to hitch their steeds up for the night. That it might be racist never occurred to me; I had no black friends before I met Jenn two years later.

Mom and Dad made a point of discussing racism with us at home, since they were both concerned that besides learning about the Underground Railroad, we weren’t getting much in the way of our difficult national history at school. When I came home from first grade singing “Gonna jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton” doing an awkward facsimile of a cakewalk, my parents were aghast and had a conference with the principal, who dismissed their concerns, pointing out Leadbelly and Belafonte had recorded versions of the song. Who could argue with Belafonte’s bona fides?

The Branigans moved in a couple of years later from Massachusetts. According to my dad, this meant that they should “know better” than to put the little statue out front. (My father still believes that East Coasters are naturally more sophisticated than us yokels out here, even after four years spent in Rhode Island which I know from my own experience is not all Newport.) Dad didn’t even notice the jockey for a few months, not until I asked him over dinner one evening after ballet class why we couldn’t have a little man of our own out front. “One day my English prince is going to ride up and he’ll need somewhere to tie up his horse before our wedding,” I said, twirling a fork in my spaghetti.

The milk Rachel was drinking shot out of her nose. “What prince is going to marry you, loser?”

After dinner (which included a stern reminder to Rachel that “loser” is not a word we said in our house, a clearly ineffectual warning), Dad and I went on a walk across the street so I could show him the hitching post for my future husband’s stallion. It was quite a notable walk, insofar that it was the backdrop for the very first time I can recall my father say the word “motherfucker” in front of me.

Dad’s one-man crusade for the removal of the lawn jockey did not go over well with the Branigans. Despite my dad’s polite reminder that this was the ’90’s, and such relics were about as welcome as a Confederate flag, Ray Branigan refused to remove the statue, and even planted a small Confederate flag next to it. “But you’re from Massachusetts!” my dad protested, having marched me over as part of a “think of the children” maneuver.

Even though my father swears it wasn’t him, one early September morning, Mrs. Branigan emerged from her home to find her “little black Sam” (as she called him) dripping in orange paint. Ray Branigan called the cops, and I got to see for the first time what it means when your dad knows half the force. It was all a terrible misunderstanding, likely to be some teens coming over from North Hollywood or Glendale to make trouble. The jockey was removed, but the little flag was replaced, and stolen, and replaced again, ad infinitum, until Mrs. Branigan finally shuffled off her mortal coil in 2004. Ray Branigan burned the flag in a solemn ceremony that half the neighborhood turned out to see.

The sun through the lilac gauze panels slowly warmed me into the nap Alex had claimed I’d wanted. The haunted room dream flitted briefly by — this time, I knew better than to look through the keyhole, or search for a key, or unlock the room. My job, my journey in this dream was to guard against others making the same error. Standing sentinel before the door, I tried hard not to listen to the voice that was calling my name from inside. Not Julian, but a man’s voice.

Melissa. Let me in. I grabbed the jostling doorknob — I could not let him out. Let me in.

But you’re inside, I said, or thought, or passed somehow to the man on the other side.

Look around. Who’s inside?

The crash of Rachel’s door hitting the wall and rebounding back into the frame to shut shattered the dream.

“Well, that went better than expected. Hot as fuck out there, though.” The bed dipped next to me to accommodate Alex’s weight, such that it was. “I’ll take that shower your mum ordered, right after I pick up where I left off. Little spoon, assume the position.”

“But I’m comfortable here,” I ground out into the duvet, still face down on the bed from where I’d drifted off thinking of the Branigans.

“Tough tits, girl. Speaking of, I’d like to feel your soft ones.” Alex levered me over onto my side and was now curled around me like the letter “C.” He’d pulled off his T-shirt and the heat from his body blazed into mine, searing through my thin cotton top.

“You’re foul, Alexander. You stink and you’re sweaty.” I swatted at him with my free arm without success. “And now I’m going to stink and be sweaty.”

“You could always take a shower. I believe your sister’s can fit us both.” His hands slipped up to cup my breasts. “Remind me that our new place in Berkeley must have a shower large enough for us both. I’d rate that above having a functional kitchen.”

“Sex pest.” I flipped over to face him — his entire torso was flush with the heat. “You really should shower now, not least because you smell rank.” I tapped his lips with a thumb. “So Dad was okay? Okay-ish?”

His mouth drew up slowly in something like satisfaction, or relief, beneath my touch. “Not nearly as bad as I’d expected. He’s worried about you.”

This again, a refrain that echoed in all quarters of my life. Where were these concerned people when Julian was pulverizing my confidence?

Alex dropped a kiss on my forehead. “I promised him I’d never intended to fall in love with you again, and never intended for you to return it. That at least was true.” A low laugh broke his calm. “And I fibbed a bit and said I was mortified that my love caused Julian so much pain.”

“He bought that?”

“Lapped it up like so much cream. I could practically see the milk mustache.” Alex grasped my hand and dotted a kiss on each knuckle. “He was more concerned that I was ready to take on more responsibility, whether I’d have enough time to devote to you. I assured him you are my very first priority, which you are, of course. I also corrected the record on a few misconceptions that had a distinctly clear provenance.”

“Like what?” I combed my fingers through some of the tangles in his curls, catching a snarl and eliciting an “ow.”

“Like the pretense that I’m only marrying you for the money. I said I’ve got no idea how much Julian gave you, and I really have no interest in knowing. I assume it’s sufficiently large that you’re an even sweeter sugarplum than I already know you to be.”

“I can tell you right now. You’ll have to know eventually when we do the prenup. Which I assume was another worry of his.” I reached out to pull him closer; the central air had dried the sweat down to a sheen of salt on his skin. The smell was no longer quite so sour, but rather musky.

Alex snorted. “He told me to get the best attorney I could afford. A bit adversarial, no? I just laughed but I think he was serious.”

We lay there for a minute, breathing as one, the constant purr of the air conditioner the only accompaniment. Then: “Your dad wanted to know about children, whether you wanted that child you never gave Julian. Whether I needed a son as he’d ‘heard’ I did.” Al made little air quotes.

I snorted. “I wonder where he ‘heard’ that one.”

“I told him that any decision about children was one that you would take the lead on, in consultation with me, of course.”

“Of course.”

I leaned forward and kissed him, lightly at first, then more, deeper. In spite of the foot in height difference between us, I had no problem flipping him on his back nor pinning his arms above his head. (He might have helped a little, asking me softly, “Like this?” as I moved him about the bed.) Straddling his waist, I leaned over him and felt… powerful. In control. Desired and desirable. Whole and perfect and in no need of tweaking or improvements.

“Fuck the patriarchy!” I growled.

“You know when you straddle me like this, I can see down your top. Nice tits.”

I groaned. “I thought you were trying to be part of the solution, Al.”

“Now, how about that shower, dirty girl? You could fuck the patriarchy right out of me.”

***

After a few fumbling minutes in my sister’s aggressively lavender shower stall, even Alex could tell that the idea of co-showering was far hotter in thought than in the execution. It wasn’t even the height difference that made sex dangerous if not impossible in the close confines, it was all the elbows jabbing into each other and the glass door and the tiled walls. The coup de grace was, however, when he bashed his head against the showerhead as I tried to climb him like a tree to wrap my legs around him.

“FUCKING FUCKING CUNTING FUCKING FUCK!” Alex doubled over, clutching his soaking wet head in his hands, forcing me out of the stall. I sat on the pale lilac toilet, water slicking off my body onto the floor.

“Would you like a towel?” It seemed like the polite thing to say, but it sounded asinine as soon as it left my mouth.

“Yes.” Alex was quiet for a moment as he poked at a tender spot on his head. He turned off the water and groused a little under his breath. “I’ll be all right, love. Remind me that we need to install a non-slip platform in our large shower in Berkeley before we try this again.” He reached for the violet towel I held out for him.

“So I’m not in trouble?” There are times, even now, really sense memory more than anything else, when I am not in this relationship, but still with Julian. Had it been Julian in the shower with me (not that I could imagine him ever deigning to fuck me in my sister’s shower), I would have been iced out for several hours. He would have stormed out of the bathroom and refused to speak with me until it was time for me to “finish what we started,” whether I felt like it then or not.

Alex finished his vigorous towelling off and wrapped the bath sheet around his hips. “I’m the idiot, not you. It’s a far better image to wank off to than to carry out.” He tossed me a towel of my own from the stack on the vanity. “Dry yourself off before your father changes his mind about letting me sleep in the same room with you.”

I took my time in the bathroom while Al answered work emails. After throwing on my sister’s gold silk dressing gown, I blew out my hair properly with an entire Sephora’s worth of Oribe and Kérastase products Rachel had left under the sink, and I felt no compunction about using the last of her Imperial Blowout styling creme, which I know costs about $70. (I thought: what would Rachel do?) I dug out my YSL Eye Marker and with a very steady hand drew a thick cat-eye stroke at the base of each top line of lashes; I thought it would match the all-black Truth Team aesthetic well. No foundation, just BB cream and some Nars Orgasm blush (in place of an actual orgasm, I guess). I couldn’t find my Givenchy lipstain, and figured it was in my handbag downstairs in the foyer — I’d swipe on a slick after dinner. I gave myself an appreciative nod — not bad for 34. Not bad at all.

Alex was hunched over his laptop with his back to the en suite bathroom when I finally emerged, my hair draped over one eye like a slightly ginger Veronica Lake. “Hey, nerd boy.”

“Have you been following this story about Trump contradicting the hurricane report — fuck me, Mel, what witchery is this?” He’d looked over his shoulder to spot me leaning against one of the bedposts. “Don’t tempt me like this, girl, or I’m going to have to fuck the patriarchy back into you.”

I planted a kiss on the back of his head. “Sounds great but I’ll pass. I’m going to get dressed and help Mom in the kitchen.” I pulled on a James Perse black tee (Rachel’s right — you can’t go wrong with a James Perse t-shirt) and a pair of cropped black Rag & Bone jeans, and slipped out into the hall. I dithered over and ultimately dismissed bothering my dad in his study — sounded like he was talking about sports on the phone with someone anyway, and ran down the stairs to the back of the house. My mom was washing what looked like a large bunch of chard in the sink, and I spotted a heap of mushrooms marinating in a bowl.

“Roast chicken pieces and greens?” I popped a baby bella whole in my mouth, and opened the fridge to root around for a beverage.

“Unlikely to cause immediate gastric distress, but you might keep the window open overnight — for both your benefit after all this chard.” My mom looked up at me as I emerged from the refrigerator’s depths with a box of Franzia.

“Franzia, Mom?” I laughed.

“Melissa Layla, don’t judge. What is this eyeliner you have going on?” She made little wiping swoops at the corner of each of her eyes. “I never could figure out how to do that. I don’t know where you and your sister got this ultrafemme thing from. Certainly not from your dear old ma. Now pour me a glass and chop this chard for me.”

Mom was certainly no-nonsense when it came to hair and makeup, not like Rachel and me, but she didn’t really need much to look pulled together and chic. Slim blue jeans and a white buttondown shirt with pearls, or grey flannel trousers and a black jewelneck cotton sweater — these were my mother’s uniforms under her white coat. Even at 65, her shoulder-length, bright copper hair had only a few strands of white threaded through, and though a little thinner than when we were kids, it was still surprisingly full. (“The Maguire genes — your grandpa had all his hair until the day he died.”)

I poured us each a good measure into matching jam jars (no pretense with Mom) and traded her one for the colander of greens. I pulled out a chef’s knife from the block resting on the island and started chopping away. “Alex had a good chat with Dad, I think.”

“Hm.” My mom leaned against the sink and gave me a searching look. “Define ‘good.'”

I looked back down at the chard to avoid her gimlet eye. “Oh, you know. They talked about my money situation and how Alex never meant to fall in love with me, or to hurt Julian.”

My mom blew a raspberry. “And your father was satisfied with Al’s responses?”

“Apparently. All done — can you pass me the baking sheet?” Mom handed me a foil-lined tray, already lightly smoothed with olive oil, and I started heaping mounds of the greens on top. “Shall I add the mushrooms?”

“Go for it. I’ll take it from there.” Mom sipped at her wine. “Did he ask about Minty? Why it all went wrong?”

“Not as far as I know.” I used the mushrooms to make a border around the edges of the tray, fussing with the placement as I proceeded. “He did ask Alex if I intended to give him the child Julian always wanted, and whether Al needed a son.”

“Sweet Mother of God! That man is beyond the pale at times. How rude!” She ran her hands over her denim apron and reached for the tray of vegetables I was holding out. “I’ll take it from here. Dinner should be ready just before six. Stay with me though. You get to see Alex all the time, and I saw you first. And you saw me first.” Her eyes — much greener than my own — watered a little. “I’m being silly and sentimental. Get the thighs out of the fridge for me, will you?”

I fished the brown paper parcel out of the meat drawer and was passing it to her when the doorbell rang. “Can you get that, Melissa? It’s probably Carolyn Lee. She borrowed the strimmer this morning.”

I didn’t bother to look through the tiny fisheye lens embedded in the door. Not that I could have anyway — like most peepholes, this one was placed far above my line of sight, even on tiptoes. I have had a whole lifetime of hoping for the best when I answered the door. I should have hoped harder this time.

The blonde man’s back was turned to me, and all I saw at first was the name “PEDERSON” emblazoned above the number 31 on his Dodgers jersey, but I’d know that body anywhere.

“Julian?” I flicked the lock on the front door open and slammed it behind me. “What are you doing here?”

He removed his sunglasses and pivoted on his heel to face me, a look of genuine shock crossing his face. “Mel? What are you doing here?”

“I live here. I mean, my parents live here. I’m visiting, which I’m sure you already know. Why else would you be here? Want to rub my nose in your visit with Fenn some more?” I spat the words out at him.

“Believe it or not, the world isn’t all about Melissa, though you seem to think we’re all players in a great soap opera all about you,” Julian scoffed. “It’s game night. Dodgers are playing the Giants tonight. I’m here to pick up your father. Game’s at 6:15. Now let me in. It’s too hot to be out here much longer.”

None of this made sense. I mean, I knew about the tickets and the games and the fantasy sports league and their nights out at the Jonathan Club, but why would my father forget to mention that he’d be eating Dodger Dogs with Julian tonight instead of dinner en famille? Or that Julian would expect to be let into the home when Alex was also inside?

“No. I’ll get my dad. Wait here.” He was right — it was still oppressively hot, even at 5:15 in the afternoon.

“If you’re trying to spare your mother, you should know she permits me to darken your doorstep. I’m coming inside to cool down.”

I blocked the door. “No.”

Julian squinted at me for a moment, cocked his head to one side before he shook it briefly and snickered. “He’s here, isn’t he? That’s what this is about. Must protect your precious, volatile lover from the dastardly Julian? How silly. How juvenile. Don’t forget our deal goes covers my good behavior as well as your tight lips. And while your boy is still as much of a heathen as always, I doubt he’d take a swing at me under your parents’ roof. I’m coming in.”

He brushed past me and opened the door to the foyer, where he stretched his arms above him and beamed at the ceiling. “I wasn’t so certain about central air con when I first moved here, as you may recall. Now I’m sure it’s yet another signal that we have a kind and merciful God.”

My mom came rushing out of the kitchen at the sound of Jules’ voice. “What are you doing here?” The color had drained from her face, as had any semblance of civility from her demeanor.

“Trish. Good to see you too. Your daughter just asked me the same question. I’m here for Phil. Dodgers game tonight. Take it he didn’t tell anyone.”

My mom looked to me and I shrugged my shoulders. “Wait here,” she told him. “I’ll get him for you.” She swept past us, shooting Julian a look so filthy I doubt borax could scrub it out, and leaving us alone at the foot of the stairs.

Julian spoke first in the awkward silence that followed in her wake. “You look lovely, darling. I like this thing with your eyeliner, quite gamine on you.”

“Oh, fuck off.” I frowned at him and crossed my arms defensively.

“He really is rubbing off on you in the most appalling ways. All these ‘fucks’ you never used to say now roll off your tongue so easily.”

Muted shouts from my old bedroom filtered down the stairs. I could hear my mother, dimly, yell, “How could you think this was okay when Alex is here? Do you think this is funny?”

“Your mum is taking this rather personally. You’re really quite similar. I suppose Alex has done a bang up job convincing her he’s the hero of your soap opera, just like he did you.”

“Mel? What’s going on?” Al’s voice rang out from the second floor, before I spotted his head peeking over the balustrade. Then: “YOU.“

Julian raised his right hand and gave Alex what I can only describe as a jaunty wave. “Oh, hullo, Alex. Fancy seeing you here. Last time I think the three of us were here together was when I married your girlfriend. Quite a good party. Didn’t Rachel try and shag you after?”

“Oh, fuck off!” Alex and I shouted in unison.

“CHILDREN!” My father’s voice rang out as he moved down the hallway and descended the stairs, overnight bag in hand. “All three of you. Behave. You’re all old enough to be grandparents in some cultures.” He slapped Julian on the back and they briefly embraced. “Let’s get this show on the road, Jules. I can tell we’re not wanted here. Crashing at your place tonight, if you don’t mind.”

“Not an issue, Phil. Mi casa es su casa, as I told Melissa the other week. My door is always open to any de Mornay.” He shot me a wolfish grin. “Goodbye, darling. See you in Crowborough in a month. Same to you, Al. Wonderful to see you. California seems to agree with you, you’re looking… better nourished.” He blew me a kiss as they passed outside into the heat, a move wholly unlike him, and completely for the aggravation of Alex.

Al bounded down the stairs, two at a time, and wrapped me in his arms. “Are you all right? Did he touch you?” He planted a kiss on the top of my head.

I shook my head. “It’s fine. He doesn’t frighten me, especially when you’re here.” I tucked my head beneath his chin and listened to my mother’s soft footfall as she descended the stairs.

“Mel?” Al whispered.

“Mmm?” I let him rock me in his arms to the soft whirr of the AC.

Alex broke away to face me, and pinched at a non-existent love handle. “When Julian said I looked ‘better nourished,’ do you think he meant I look fat?”

***

Jenn called at 7:30 to make sure Alex and I were ready to begin Operation Find-a-Friend. (“It has a more professional ring than ‘Scooby Plan,’ don’t you think?”)

“Suited and booted, Hannibal,” Alex responded over speakerphone.

“Fantastic, I like your style, Faceman. Cait and I are just coming out of the Ralphs on Victory, Mel. I picked up a bag of funsize Kit-Kats and some Ruffles for sustenance, just in case.”

Al looked down at his concave stomach. “I’ll pass. I think I’m looking a little porky.”

“Oh, Alex,” I sighed. “You’re not fat. You’re in need of fattening up if anything. Don’t let him get in your head like that.”

“Who’s getting in his head? Wait a moment, getting in the car.” I heard the doors thud shut with satisfying clunks. “Driving now, you’re on with Cait, too. Who’s telling Alex he’s fat?”

I butted in. “Julian came over to pick up my dad for a Dodgers game and told Alex he looked ‘better nourished.'”

Silence from both Cait and Jenn, before Cait broke in. “So Al, what did it feel like when your fist connected with that little shit’s nose?”

“I value my visa status too highly to indulge in what surely would have been a quite satisfying punch.”

“I don’t think any court would have convicted you,” Jenn growled. “Alex, you’re not fat. Eat a fucking Kit-Kat. We’re passing the In-n-Out now, be there in under 10.”

With a parting kiss for us both from my mom, who wished us at least some success if only to give Jenn some peace of mind, Al and I piled into the back seat of the Tesla.

“Okay kids, here’s the plan,” Jenn said, turning down the Allah-Las track playing on the stereo. “We drive to the Fujimas’ and wait for Jen to emerge. Then we follow her. Simple, huh?”

“That’s one word for it,” I grunted. “What if she just goes home? Do we hang around outside her apartment and sleep in shifts until she goes to work on Monday?”

“Don’t be a killjoy. It’s Saturday night, and Addy told me that Jen’s started going to what she calls ‘power aerobics’ on Saturday evenings. Who the fuck does ‘power aerobics’ on a Saturday night, especially after dinner?”

Alex chortled. “‘Power aerobics’? I really must steal that as a new euphemism for sex.”

“EXACTLY!” Jenn punched the air with her fist.

We rounded the corner onto Sunset Canyon for the short trip to the Fujimas’ on Cypress. Jenn parked the car across the street and three doors down, close enough to be able to keep an eye on any potential Jen sightings, but far enough away to be unobtrusive. Jen’s Crosstrek was parked in her parents’ driveway, so there was at least a fighting chance that we’d see her emerge.

We spent the next half hour eating Kit-Kats and discussing my dad’s strange relationship with Julian, and whether it was all an act to wind up my mother, or if there was something more to it, like an attempt to tighten his control over me even still. Even now, Alex gave Jules the benefit of the doubt, and chalked it up to loneliness for both men creating strange bedfellows. Cait and Jenn saw something more sinister, as they usually did, and warned Alex not to let me be alone with Julian at the wedding.

“Oh please, both of you!” I yelled. “I’m not about to be raped or seduced by Julian. I’m an adult. I can handle myself. Plus I have the most amazing backup with me.” I squeezed Alex’s hand, and he leaned in for a kiss.

“Ew, people in love are gross,” Cait said.

“There she is!” Jenn pointed out the windscreen. Jen was wearing workout clothes; a small backpack was slung over her left shoulder. After throwing the bag in the rear of the car, she carefully reversed into the street and took off past us towards Kenneth Road. The hunt was on.

Cait and Jenn kept squealing with excitement as we followed the Crosstrek onto the 134 East. It wasn’t that hard keeping her in sight, despite being on the freeway, because Jen is one of the least aggressive LA area drivers I know. She tends to pick a lane and stick in it: “Driving’s not a game, although most people around here act like it is. I’m happier stuck doing 55 behind a truck or a stoner than trying to ‘beat’ people.”

Jen took the exit for Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena, bringing me in close proximity to my old home, and I shivered a little. “Do you need it a little less cold back here?” Alex asked me, but I declined.

We followed her car all the way to just past Pasadena City College, where she parked in front of the 99 Cent store. We pulled past her car and parked in front of the kickboxing studio on the next block.

“Now what?” Cait asked. “She’s behind us. Some great plan.”

“Hush. I can see her in the rearview.” Jenn was squinting her eyes for a better view. “Shit, she’s walking towards us.”

“Perhaps she’s really doing power aerobics at this kickboxing studio,” Alex mused. “But maybe we should duck, just to be safe.”

“Too late,” I hissed. “Just stay still.”

Jen strode by the car, never casting us a glance. Strode was an understatement — she practically skipped down the block until she reached Lucky Baldwin’s, an old haunt of hers when she’d lived in Pasadena. I preferred the other branch in Old Town, but Jen had sentimental feelings about this one. Knowing that Jenn and I were unlikely to ever pass through its doors, back in the day she and Mack could carry on their secret relationship under our noses before Jenn sniffed it out.

Jenn clicked her tongue at the predictability. “Lucky’s? Really?” Jen disappeared inside, and I imagined the next three hours or so would pass much like the time we’d spent on Cypress, waiting for something or someone to happen.

We didn’t have to wait that long. Clutching two pints, Jen walked back outside to the roped-off patio area in front of the pub and took a seat.

Alex started bouncing up and down in his seat. “It’s happening! It’s happening!” Jenn giggled and Cait chanted, “One of us! One of us!” at Alex. A distinct air of mania hung in the air conditioned luxury of the Tesla, threatening to choke at least three of us to death. Or maybe I just wished that.

We had an excellent view of Jen from the car. She sipped at her beer and occasionally tapped away at her phone, but mostly scanned the street, looking for her date. When I did get a good look at her face, she looked elated, practically sparking with anticipation. I knew that feeling well from my early days with Alex in Bristol, waiting in ambush for him to emerge from a lecture. And with Julian later, when I was waiting in arrivals at LAX to run into his arms and cover him with kisses.

“I think she sees her date,” Alex whispered. “Look.” Jen rose slightly from her seat and waved at someone slightly down the block. “Anyone know who that man is?”

As if we didn’t know him. As if we four women — three in the car, and one on the patio — hadn’t known him for most of our lives.

“Fuuuuuucccccckkkkkkkkkk,” Cait wailed.

“That little bitch!” Jenn banged her hand on the dashboard. “Fuck, that hurt.”

I was in shock, but managed to say to Al, “That’s Mack. That’s her ex-husband.”

“And that’s a big deal why?”

“She kicked him out for cheating on her. Then he married his mistress. And they’re still married.”

Illuminated in the backseat by a streetlight, I saw Alex’s mouth make a little “o.”

“Yeah,” I continued. “Imagine if I started cheating on you with Julian.”

In the front seat, Cait and Jenn were debating what to do as Mack grabbed Jen and spun her around in his arms, like they hadn’t seen each other in years when clearly they’d been performing “power aerobics” all summer. He set her down carefully, like she was made of spun sugar, beautiful and bound to break at the slightest touch. She tipped her head up for a kiss and Mack held her face in his hands, scanning it as she smiled back it him, before he drew her close again.

“Disgusting. They’re disgusting!” Jenn sobbed. “How could she do this? After everything he put her through? And now she’s the other woman.” Jenn is not a crier, and her sorrow was almost as disturbing as the display before us.

“I’ve got this.” Cait unbuckled herself and opened the car door to shouts of “NO!” from Jenn and me. “You two can sit there and let this happen but I won’t.” Alex followed her — he later told us on the plane back he was convinced Caitlin was going to smash one of the pint glasses and threaten the two exes, and he probably had the best chance of restraining her.

“HEY CHEATERS!” Cait slammed the car door after her; I rolled down my window to hear better. “YEAH YOU TWO!”

Jenn’s weeping had turned into a wail inside the car. “How could she do this to me? How could she lie to me? And with him? He’s no better — poor Kayla. Poor, dumb Kayla.”

“Get a grip, Jenn. This isn’t about you.” That I was the voice of reason in this mess was turning out to be perhaps the most bizarre event of the evening. “I’m going out there too. You can stay there feeling sorry for yourself or you can be part of the Truth Team. This is the truth, as ugly as it is.”

I let myself out of the car and joined the others, who by now were standing with Mack and Jen. Alex was shaking Mack’s hand — somehow amongst this farce the men were keeping up some semblance of good manners. On the distaff side, Cait was laying into Jen.

“How can you live with yourself? How can you take him back when you have proof he’s a cheater? He’s just going to leave you again and we’re all going to have to go through it with you. Again.”

Jen caught sight of me and I raised my hand in greeting. “You too, Mel?” she said, her shoulders slumping. “I assume Jenn’s around here somewhere, too.”

I nodded and grabbed her hand. “Caitlin, stop bullying her. This isn’t about you, or Jenn, or me. I don’t know what’s going on here but it’s about them, not us.”

“Why do you assume it’s him who forced me into this?” Jen jabbed a finger at Caitlin. “I missed him, and when I asked him if he missed me too, he said yes. We fucked up. He fucked up more. We never should have given up.”

Mack, who’d ducked slightly behind Alex for cover, concurred. “I made a mistake being with Kayla in the first place, and Jen gave me so many chances to atone. I could have left Kayla a million times before the divorce. Hell, I wanted to leave her, but I didn’t think I deserved to. I thought marrying Kayla would be the punishment I had coming.”

Alex turned to face him. “Really? Ask Mel, I’ve made some shockingly poor decisions in my life, but that?” Al made a low whistle. “That’s not on at all, mate.”

Cait reached to slap Mack, but Al put his hand out in time to stop her. “No slapping. Now as the only one here with no dog in this fight, I suggest we all retreat to our respective corners. Caitlin and Mel, we’re getting back in the car and driving home. Now.”

Alex took both Cait and I by the hand — clearly, he didn’t trust her not to bolt back to confront them — and led us back to the car, where Jenn remained silent in the driver’s seat. “Jenn, out. I’m driving us back to the de Mornays and we’re all going to have a drink. Mel, how much of that Franzia is left?”

I climbed in the back with Jenn and buckled her in like a child. She rested her head on my shoulder. “It’s a five liter box. I think there’s at least four left in there.”

Alex turned around to look in the backseat at Jenn and patted her hand lightly. “Let’s stop and get a fifth of whisky for me. I think we all need a bit of lubrication after that show.”

It really was quite the show, and for once, one which blessedly did not feature me.